


Minding Your P's and Q's

by siennna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Humor, Male Friendship, One Shot, POV John Watson, Platonic Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock can be nice when he wants to be, manners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:18:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennna/pseuds/siennna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It astounded John to no end that someone as unfathomably brilliant as Sherlock Holmes could fail to understand the simple concept of manners. Being the morally better half of the duo, he felt it was his responsibility to rectify that. </p><p>Or: John teaches Sherlock how to say 'Please' and 'Thank You'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minding Your P's and Q's

**Author's Note:**

> SEE! I can write platonic Johnlock! *has to restrain self from adding snogging*
> 
> Enjoy, lovelies!

It was in the middle breakfast, after John had made his way through half his meal and Sherlock's toast had grown reasonably cold, that John declared, "Sherlock, you need to work on your manners. They're abysmal."

Admittedly, it was a blunt way to start a Wednesday, but considering he'd spent the previous twenty four hours scrubbing fish innards out of his clothing and apologizing to a myriad of people on Sherlock's behalf (thanks to the detective's aforementioned lack of manners), he felt he'd earned the right to be a bit snappish.

He also felt some yelling wouldn't have been entirely out of order, but because he was actually _polite_ (unlike his flat mate), he refrained.

However, in response to his unending patience, Sherlock simply arched a brow and continued typing up his latest lab report, eventually deigning to reply, "Mm? Yes I'll get on that."

"No," John snapped, cutting into his sausage with more aggression than necessary. "I mean it. You _need_ to work on your manners."

"Now you're just repeating yourself, John," Sherlock pointed out reasonably. "No use in doing that, I heard you quite the fine the first time around."

"I repeated myself for emphasis, Sherlock. I'd appreciate if you actually listened to what I'm saying instead of ignoring me and writing about your damned thumb experiment."

"Not thumbs, John, _toes_ ," Sherlock explained. "And I am listening to you. But manners, niceties, propriety—it's all rubbish." Sherlock waved his hand as if to banish the notions. "It's irrelevant." After a beat, he paused in his typing to peer at John, apparently having just realized something. "Does this by any chance have to do with last night's case?"

John sawed off another piece of sausage and glared at him from across the table. "Oh, you mean when you dragged me to an abandoned fishing supply warehouse and left me to stew in a vat of bloody _chum_ while you scaled the rafters like a chimpanzee and 'scoped out of the scene', and then later made it _my_ responsibility to explain to the police why we'd snuck onto private property? Because if that's what you're referring to, then _yes_ that's what this is bloody about."

Sherlock sighed long-sufferingly. "John, you hardly stewed. The chum was knee-height at best and the authorities were no more than a mere nuisance. Besides, it isn't my fault they didn't find _my_ explanations sufficient."

Sarcastically, John retorted, "Oh, yes, I'm quite shocked they didn't accept your 'I had a whim' excuse, Sherlock. After all, what kind of sick country doesn't allow a man to break into warehouses and steal fish?"

"Sarcasm is unbecoming on you, John," Sherlock sniffed. "I much prefer when you're smiling or retelling a fond story. Why don't you tell that one about your mate's stag party in 2009—"

"I know what you're doing, you git, don't change the subject," John warned, though his annoyance had softened now that he had Sherlock's full attention. "If it weren't for your bad bloody manners, that man might not have fined us for trespassing."

Sherlock groaned in frustration and dug his fingers into his messy, dark curls, clearly annoyed by the whole interaction. "John," he pleaded, begging him to understand the apparent simplicity of the situation. "Obviously that man was going to fine us either way, he'd just caught his girlfriend sleeping with his brother only ten hours previous and he clearly wanted to take out his anger on someone. He would've fined us whether I pointed out his ejaculatory issues or not, so there's no need to fuss over what might have been."

A vivid memory of the man's bright-red, fuming face floated before John's mind's eye, quite bluntly reminding him of the utter chaos that quickly ensured Sherlock's comment on the man's—'issues'. Most prominently, a police officer writing them a big fat ticket for trespassing.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away an impending headache. "I ask only that you learn when to keep quiet Sherlock," John half-pleaded, "it'd behoove us both."

Sherlock flicked his gaze briefly away from the screen to scowl at John, muttering, "It is not my fault the rest of the world is so bloody sensitive, but I suppose for the sake of their _fragile hearts_ I'll _try_ to refrain from mentioning their blatant shortcomings." Then he ducked his head, sullenly went back to typing, and didn't speak another word for the rest of breakfast.

John sighed and got up to rinse his dishes. As far as confrontations with Sherlock went, John figured this one had been at least somewhat successful.

. . .

It was late afternoon when John decided he fancied a nice cuppa.

There was something quite soothing about preparing tea; the process always followed the same simple steps, no surprises or unexpected twists ever popped up, and the outcome unfailingly resulted in a delicious cuppa. To most people, the act might have seemed mundane, but since John's life consisted primarily of spontaneity, whim, chaos, and danger, he had learned to enjoy the small bits of normality life offered (if and when they came).

Because when one woke up each morning to a bathtub of thumbs and a fridge full of pig fetuses—in other words, _when one lived with Sherlock Holmes_ —one learned to appreciate routine.

After this morning's little lecture on propriety, Sherlock had mostly kept to himself, either mixing chemicals in the kitchen, quietly leafing through files in his bedroom, or lounging in the sitting room, staring at the empty air with a thoughtful look on his face. The latter of the three was currently occupying the detective, who was perched in his leather chair with his hands steepled against his lips, emitting an aura of impenetrable reserve. John figured he was either sulking from the reprimand or far too emerged in his latest experiment to converse, but whatever it was, he clearly didn't care to be bothered today.

And John was perfectly content to leave him be, but as he was preparing the tea an idea occurred to him; despite Sherlock's stroppy mood and less than friendly disposition this afternoon, John resolved to make the detective a nice cuppa, partially to make amends for breakfast and partially to pull Sherlock out of his sulky mood, for the flat was far too quite when he stewed like this.

Minutes later, John walked into the sitting room with the resulting mugs in tow. Once he was within a few feet of Sherlock's chair, he raised a cup at the detective in silent offering. Even though he was facing John, Sherlock made no acknowledgement or attempt to reach for it, apparently too submerged in his thoughts to bother. John considered just setting it down nearby, but unfortunately the small table beside Sherlock was cluttered with loose papers and documents and the rounded arm of the chair was hardly a suitable place to balance a cup of tea, so John simply stood before the silent man with the mug in tow, patiently waiting for Sherlock to register his presence and accept the mug himself.

Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers against his pale, pursed mouth as if punctuating a thought, before raising his gaze to John and offering an imperiously outstretched hand, eyebrow arched expectantly. Sherlock didn't bother maintaining eye contact and immediately sunk back into his mind palace, the hand remaining in its open-palmed, demanding position.

John made no move to hand the mug over. Instead, he examined his flat mate in complete bafflement, wondering how long he planned to simply sit there with his fingers and palm splayed grandly like a king waiting on a particularly slow peasant. He fleetingly wondered if this was Sherlock's idea of a joke, but as the minutes ticked by, John came to the conclusion that that was indeed not the case.

His initial plan to generously deliver the tea and then pat himself on the back for being a good mate, was forgotten in an instant.

Instead, he thought of a much _better_ plan; since he had no pressing matters to deal with this evening, he figured teaching Sherlock the simple words "Please" and "Thank you" would be a worthy use of the surplus of time, because apparently this morning's lecture on etiquette wasn't sufficient. He tapped his foot unhurriedly, humming under his breath.

After about three and a half minutes, Sherlock flexed his hand into the shape of a mug and raised it to his mouth absently, only realizing that he was holding air when his lips met skin rather than the warm, enamel rim of a tea cup. He immediately withdrew from his contemplations, a look of deep offense furrowing his brow as his pale eyes darted between his bare hand and John's innocent expression. He narrowed his eyes in annoyance once his gaze fell to the mug in John's left hand-which he apparently deemed rightly his—and his cupid's-bow mouth folded into a slight pout. John allowed a bit of genuine amusement to dash across his face, a small smile curling the edge of his lips. John would've laughed at the rather petulant way Sherlock's eyes continued to dart between him and the tea, clearly attempting to communicate his displeasure at John's refusal to wait on him, except he wanted to win the little stare-down that he'd unintentionally initiated. Neither would say a word and neither would back down, that much was clear.

After a moment, Sherlock straightened in his chair and adjusted himself, clearly prepared to sit there for as long as it took to 'win'. It was rather obvious that he found John's desire for proper manners pointless (as usual) and was prepared to stare him down indefinitely for it. Sherlock's pale, chlorine colored eyes were intently focused and unwavering, much like his resolve to rebel against social niceties. (But really, John thought to himself, was it _that_ difficult to say please?) Many others might've crumbled under the penetrating scrutiny of his gaze, but John simply raised a brow in return.

Sherlock grit his teeth, apparently realizing that this matter wasn't going to resolve itself in a timely manner; unfortunately he'd have to deal with it, because there was no way he'd be able to focus enough to reenter his mind palace—not with John standing a foot from him and reeking of _challenge._

At last, he huffed in irritation. "John this is ridiculous. Just give me the tea or move out of the way. You're blocking my view,"

"Of?" John asked, humored.

Sherlock was not amused. "Of a certain collection of dust particles that happen to be floating just behind you," he answered, sarcastically. "You're blocking my view of the experiment that I am currently conducting in the kitchen. Unless you'd like to risk the possibility of another sulfuric explosion, I suggest you clear my line of sight."

"Yes, alright," John replied agreeably and Sherlock looked smug right until John finished with, "just as soon as you say please and thank you."

With a loud, dramatic groan, he covered his face with his hands. " _John,_ " Sherlock complained, his palms failing to muffle the undeniable whine in his tone. "Are we _still_ on this subject? Christ, this is all so pointless. Who cares if I say _please_ and _thank you_ and _pardon me_? They're all just useless niceties. They don't _matter."_

At John's unmoved silence, Sherlock peered at him from between the cracks of his long fingers. "Besides, since when do you care if I thank you for giving me tea? Isn't this just one of those, I don't know, _things_ that people do without verbal recognition?" he asked, genuinely perplexed. "Why must I voice my thanks?"

John raised his eyebrows, bewildered that the man before him—a man who could name every toxic mold in the entire world and deduce the state of one's marriage from the scuffs on a ring—could not seem to wrap his mind around the concept of manners. "I suppose it's just a nice way of letting someone know you value what they're doing for you. I certainly wouldn't mind the appreciation once in a while."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if the comment was so ridiculous that it hardly merited a response. "Of course I appreciate you, John," Sherlock replied dismissively. Then, under his breath, added, "I just didn't think you needed it professed quite this often."

"What do you mean 'quite this often'?" John asked, indignantly. "This is the first time I've even said anything—you make it sound as if I'm some insecure teenage girl!"

Sherlock evenly met his gaze and said nothing in return, but his smug silence was answer enough. John glowered.

"Sherlock, it's just nice to hear some acknowledgement every once in a while," John explained in a huff. "It's the same way you like recognition for your deductions and crime-solving."

Sherlock immediately held up his palm in a swift, halting motion, his mouth twisted into a scowl. "I do _not_ care about the thanks of the idiots that I assist. I've told you time and time again that I don't concern myself with what others say, John, so your poor attempt at relating this ridiculous situation to me has failed horribly."

John exhaled noisily and set the two mugs, which he'd almost completely forgotten about, down onto the floor, far enough from their feet to avoid the threat of spilling. John stomped to his chair across from Sherlock and sunk into it, having decided that the impending conversation would require plenty of patience and a comfortable seat.

"Is it that difficult to say thank you for a cup of tea?" John asked exasperatedly.

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, his eyes scanning John's face with alarming intensity, before his expression cleared and a decision was visibly made. "Fine, John. Thank you oh-so-very much for heating water, dropping a bag of herbs into it, and watching it seep for six minutes. How _ever_ do you manage such a tremendous chore? I am forever in your debt for forcing you through such an arduous, _trying_ task," Sherlock replied in a crisp, snappish tone dripping with sarcasm. "Is that better John?" he asked, petulantly folding his arms in a manner he must have intended to come across as daunting, but in reality gave him the appearance of a pouting five year old. John was not impressed.

"Not quite, Sherlock. Bit too much derision there. Try again," John suggested in a mock-helpful tone. He settled further into the overstuffed chair and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes. This would certainly prove to be amusing, if nothing else.

"Fine, thank you for somehow managing to-"

"No."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I appreciate the menial effort it took to-"

"Not quite."

Sherlock glared at the satisfied little grin threatening to curl John's lips and flared his nostrils in annoyance. The detective looked away to compose himself, drumming his long, lithe fingers against the upholstery and visibly garnering what remained of his patience. After a long moment and rather haughty exhalation of air, Sherlock turned his gaze back to John.

"Thank you for the..." he clenched his jaw and fists in an effort to bite back the onslaught of derision that begged to leave his lips. John watched his Adams apple bob and the pale tendons of his hands flex in self-restraint. " _Tea. Thank you for the tea, John,"_ he said in a rush. As soon as the words left his lips he let out a loud, melodramatic gasp for air like he'd just been drowning in a pool. The man even had the gall to ghost a hand concernedly over his chest, as if in fear that the task had somehow managed to stop his heart.

He _clearly_ wanted John to know the torture he'd been forced to endure for the sake of that simple phrase.

"Nearly killed you did it?"

"Yes, actually. Useless actions tend to have that sort of effect on me," Sherlock replied haughtily. John drank in Sherlock's huffy expression and said, with no small amount of self-satisfaction, "You're quite welcome, Sherlock."

It was far from a heartfelt proclamation of gratitude, but John would take what he could get. He figured Sherlock deserved a bit of a reward for gritting his way through his first 'lesson' in manners, so he bent and plucked the cooling mugs from the floor. Sherlock watched with sharp eyes as John brought the cups into the kitchen to reheat them. Afterwards, he reorganized the cups on a tray among a pleasant spread of biscuits and returned to the sitting room with the intention of serving them. Sherlock raised a curious brow.

"So that's it, then? To get royal treatment I need only say a handful of polite words? If only I had known sooner how easy it was," he commented in mock-wistfulness.

John glanced up from his task of redistributing the newly heated tea with an amused eye roll, but made no comment. He worked contently at adding cream and sugar to their respective drinks, hardly noticing how intensely Sherlock was watching him. The dark haired man examined John's bowed head for a long moment before something apparently occurred to him. With a quiet "Aha," his thoughtful expression was immediately replaced by one of slight worry.

"John," he asked, abruptly.

John raised his eyes from the tray and wordlessly gestured for him to continue.

"John, does it truly mean that much when I thank you?" His brow was furrowed and his eyes were settled somewhere middle distance, as was typically the case when he was deeply contemplating something.

John set the pot down and was now looking at Sherlock with his full attention, somewhat thrown off by the question. John hadn't really felt all that passionate in his insistence for gratitude, he simply thought it would prove useful to teach the detective some manners. What John apparently failed to consider was the possibility that after the conversation, Sherlock would still have interest in the topic. The detective was clearly concerned about something that had just occurred to him, but as usual, John was completely oblivious as to what it was.

Sensing some sort of oncoming panic attack or fit, John quickly attempted to soothe his flat mate. "Sherlock, it's fine. I only meant to help you understand that manners would be beneficial. I understand the way you operate and I really do not expect that sort of response every time I-"

"Oh, but you do," the detective countered, his eyes still unfocused with deep thought. "Within every lighthearted action lies a grain of truth, John. You truly do feel as if I take you for granted." His words were distant in tone but still dead-accurate, as usual. "You think I do not appreciate you, and, to make a large-scale conclusion, you think that I would not even notice if you left." With that statement, Sherlock broke from his trance and locked onto John's gaze, his pale eyes searching John's with almost frantic urgency. "You do think that, don't you?" he questioned, unable to hide the brief flicker of panic that crossed his face.

John felt frozen. It was strange how a few vague phrases could change the mood of the room so drastically; the teasing, easy going vibe abruptly seeped away in favor of tense silence. John felt his heart fall to the pit of his stomach, because as reluctant as he was to admit so, Sherlock was partially astute in his observation.

After a long beat of silence wherein no answer was forthcoming, Sherlock poured from his chair in one fluid motion and crossed the short distance between them in two brisk steps. He stopped, standing before John with a thoughtful expression. Sherlock suddenly seemed a bit unsure as he absently kneaded his lip and appeared to mull something over. Eventually decided, he sank to his knees before John and grasped the rounded cap of John's knee in one hand, leaning forward to look at John at eye-level, his torso wedged more or less between John's thighs. John started at Sherlock's sudden breach of personal space, staring in alarm at his flat mate's hand on his knee. "Sherlock what are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't even blink. "John, please listen to me when I say what I am about to say, because you will hear all of this exactly one time in your life and if your apparent fear of me touching your knees drowns out my words then I will make no effort to repeat myself, understood?"

John nodded but then immediately cut off the motion with a startled-sounding, "And you need to be this close to me, _why?"_

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if the question was so pointless it hardly deserved a response. "I have your complete attention, don't I? Besides, it's vital that you understand the sincerity of what I am going to say and I've found that intimate contact tends to express genuineness fairly efficiently," he explained impatiently, brushing off the incredulous expression John gave in response. John was ready to launch into an argument on the decidedly inappropriate position they were in – Sherlock was literally wedged between his legs and _how_ was that truly necessary– but he was not given the chance because Sherlock immediately began talking.

"John, I do not need to tell you how rare it is for me to tolerate any one person for an extended period of time, but I shall do so anyway to prove a point: I generally dislike people. They are simple and ordinary and dull and since they almost always feel similar distaste for me, I tend to avoid social interactions and relationships. You however are an exception. I can see it in your face sometimes that you are unsure of why I enjoy your company so much, so I shall explain in to you as best I can, though I will warn you that I've never been particularly skilled at articulating my emotions.

"You are an admirable man in various aspects. Most people would commend your bravery and courage and sense of loyalty—traits you certainly have in abundance—but I shall be concise by saying that as a whole you are extraordinarily _interesting_. I can't quite put a finger on it, but at risk of sounding horribly poetic, I'd say it's something in your eyes or smile or manner of speech. You are an army doctor with the ability to both heal and kill when necessary, loyal to a degree that astounds me even now, clever, albeit in a different way than I, compassionate – which, by the way, I never considered positive until you – and most of all _you like me_. I hardly need to count out how many people have genuinely liked me in my life, John, but I can tell you that it's not an impressive number. In fact, aside from you, Mrs. Hudson, and maybe Lestrade, I have no one else in my life who enjoys my company as much as I enjoy theirs. What I'm saying, John, is that I most certainly do need you and I deeply apologize if my lack of gratitude for the little, wonderful things you do has made you think otherwise. If you'd like I can make an effort in the future to say thank you when thanking is required, as long as it means you'll understand your value to me. So…thank you, John. For your friendship, for your constancy, and for the tea as well, I suppose."

At complete loss for (intelligent) words, John found he could say nothing but, "Where the bloody hell did _that_ come from?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes but the gesture held no malice. Still situated between his legs, the detective drummed his fingers against John's right thigh (more or less to the beat of some Tchaikovsky ballad) and used his other hand to absently pick at a loose sting on the hem of John's sweater. "I know how to express gratitude, John," Sherlock said dryly. "But I'd rather spend my thanks on _you_ rather than the testicularly-challenged owner of a fishing supplies warehouse. Or the distribution of _tea._ I cannot simply hand out _thank you's_ and _good day's_ and _how are you's_ the way most people do, I find it useless. I'd prefer to dispense my gratitude when it truly matters, such as with you."

John, feeling a bit overwhelmed by all of the unexpected warmth flooding his chest, reflexively reached out and smoothed Sherlock's hair back from his forehead in one brief, affectionate stroke. There was no particular reason behind the action, only that it felt right. Sherlock allowed it, his expression mild except for his eyes, which smiled and sparked like sunlight filtering through sea glass.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said at last, not quite caring that his hand was lingering on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock tilted his head to the right with a thoughtful expression, looking as if he were savoring the phrase: turning it over in his mind, examining it. After a moment of consternation, a look of delight flickered over his features. "You're right, John," he said with a pleased smile. "That phrase does feel quite nice to hear."

At that, John adopted a painfully hopeful expression. "Does that mean you'll use it when we're on cases? And you'll think twice about things before you say them from now on?"

Sherlock simply chuckled, patted John's knee, and then rose. "Oh, John," he sighed, merrily making his way back to the kitchen. "I truly do admire your capacity to dream."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you lovely people enjoyed this! This week was finals week and I have been stressing so hard, I'm incredibly glad I had the time to relax and write this little one shot :) 
> 
> Feedback would be glorious. Thanks again for reading, darlings! Until next time X0X0


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